


The Advantages of Cheap Gas Station Wine

by givesamapuppy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Counter Sex, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 13:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6053929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givesamapuppy/pseuds/givesamapuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air conditioning is broken in your motel room and you try to cool off with some wine, but Sam has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Advantages of Cheap Gas Station Wine

It’s hot and humid as Satan's armpit, and goddammit you need a cold drink. Despite the fact that Sam and Dean and you decided to spring for a two-room suite with a living room/kitchen for once, the motel is still shitty enough to have broken air conditioning, in the middle of July no less, which as far as you’re concerned is just your luck. After a significant amount of debating with yourself over whether it’s worth it to leave your comfortable position tangled with a sweaty mass of sleeping Sam on top of the covers on your motel bed, your throat is parched and you can’t stand it anymore so you pad into the attached kitchen, sighing at the cold feeling of the linoleum under your bare feet. 

You open the refrigerator, planning to get water, and also shoving your head in there a little longer than is actually necessary because damn does that feel good. Right when you’re wishing you were a bottle of mustard so you could just live in the refrigerator your eye catches a bottle of red wine. Huh. You’d forgotten about that. It’s leftover from the previous night, when you picked up the bottle at a convenience store to celebrate finishing a hunt. Dean bitched about it not being beer, and it turned out the hunt wasn’t actually finished, so it lay there forgotten until now. 

You rustle through the cabinets a bit and actually manage to find a real wine glass, which feels like a crystal decanter compared to what you’re used to, and your pour yourself out a full glass of the rich red liquid. The outside of the glass frosts up quickly, and you take a gulp, relishing the feeling of the cold bitter liquid coating your tongue and rushing down your throat and cooling you from the inside out when it settles in your stomach. 

You take another swig and lean back against the countertop, letting your muscles go loose and resting your elbows on the hard surface. You smirk to yourself, wondering how long it will take before Sam shuffles out from the darkness of your room after you. He’s a sensitive sleeper, from all his years of being hunter-trained to live on his toes, and there’s no way you could have gotten up without him noticing. 

You’re wearing a silk chemise that Dean teases you relentlessly for, you believe the words “French mistress” have come up, but it’s light and comfortable and the silk fabric feels cool on your skin, so screw Dean. 

A moment later, Sam’s unmistakable large frame appears in the doorway, and as he moves further into the room you can tell he’s looking you up and down. You happen to know you look damn good in this chemise, it clings to your curves and exposes the soft swell of the tops of your breasts. You stroke the edge of the glass with your pointer finger absently. 

Sam continues towards you until he’s crowded you against the counter, hips and thighs flush against you and the rest of him a few inches away as you’re still leaning back on your elbows. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say, and your voice sounds strange in the empty room against the backdrop of summer-night crickets. You bring the glass to your lips again and take another drink, and you’re starting to get a tiny hint of a low hum throughout your body. Sam’s eyes haven’t left yours for a while, but now they flicker down to your mouth like they’re drawn by magnets, and he licks his lips. 

You stay still, waiting patiently as Sam bends down to you and, after hovering there for a tantalizing moment, captures your lips with his. He kisses you wet and slow, taking his time, running his tongue along your bottom lip before dipping it into your mouth and licking every surface he can—your tongue, your teeth, your lips, like he’s trying to get at every trace of wine left in your mouth. 

His hand lands on your thigh just below the hem of your chemise and wanders lazily, pulling the fabric up a bit to stroke the soft skin there before moving to palm your hip over the garment, his fingers gripping and releasing in time with his lips languidly working against yours. 

Sam pulls back an inch, lips and tongue retreating with a smack, and you’re both breathing hard now as you turn your head to take a drink from the glass that is somehow still in your hand without having been spilled, meeting Sam’s gaze as you do so. Before you can put the glass down he grabs it, fingers covering yours, and brings it to his own mouth. You watch his throat roll as he swallows, the motion and the glisten of sweat on his skin making your breath hitch. He puts the glass aside and lowers his head back to you, just barely catching at your lips and pulling back teasingly a couple times before kissing you open-mouthed and hungry but still so slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of you. 

You sigh into Sam’s mouth, melting into him as he brings both hands to your face and brushes your hair back, running his fingers through the strands and gathering them in a tangle at the back of your head. You marvel momentarily at how gentle those huge, calloused hands can be. 

Sam is hot pressed against you, not to mention the heat boiling up inside you, but you can’t seem to care anymore, about much of anything, really, with the buzzing in your head that could be from the alcohol or the equally intoxicating scent of Sam surrounding you, you can't tell.

You whimper softly against his mouth and tug at his t-shirt, to which he responds by grunting low in his throat and untangling his hands from your hair, grabbing you by the waist and lifting you easily to set you on the countertop. His lips don’t leave yours as he does this and you feel his jaw thrust forward a little to chase your mouth in that way that always sends shivers straight where it counts. 

You part your legs so he can settle between your thighs and you get to work on pulling his sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head. He reluctantly complies and leaves your now certainly swollen lips for a moment, taking the opportunity to pull the straps of your chemise off your shoulders and down your arms enough to expose your breasts. Sam lays wet kisses all along your collar bone before descending, sucking marks into the top of one breast while kneading the other with his hand. There’s a trail of sweat in between your breasts that he laps up enthusiastically and you wind your hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging a bit like you know he loves, so he mutters something into your skin that sounds like your name and straightens up to look at you. 

Unable to resist anymore, you slip a hand in his boxers and grip his cock firmly, drawing a hiss from Sam and making both his hands fly to your hips. He’s already hard, and you pump up and down his length, relishing the feeling of him heavy and twitching in your palm. His hips jerk forwards, grinding himself into the heel of your hand, and you watch intently as he gets that little wrinkle in his nose and his lip curls up in a snarl. 

Sam’s hands tug at the hem of your camisole, bunching it up and pulling it over your hips, only to still completely and close his eyes, his jaw twitching visibly. “Fuck, are you trying to kill me?” he chokes. 

Oh, right. He must have discovered that you’re currently going commando. When you were getting ready for bed earlier you decided the fewer clothes the better. You shrug. “It’s too hot for underwear,” you explain. 

The noise he makes is somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and he pulls you against him, your bare pussy grinding against his boxer-clad cock and your own hand, which is momentarily distracted but still pumping absentmindedly. He has a hard grip on your hip with one hand and splays the other against the small of your back, holding you to him like he’s desperate to ensure there isn’t a molecule of space between you. 

You remove your hand from his boxers, instead grasping his bicep, so you can grind up and down his cock uninhibited, except by a thin layer of fabric that is currently getting a large wet spot on it from your slick folds sliding along his covered length. Your current position is advantageous in that it puts you in the perfect spot to attach your lips to Sam’s flushed and glistening neck and chest, which has had your mouth watering for some time. As you’re licking the salty skin, dipping your tongue into the hollow of his throat and nipping at the tendon that strains out, you remember that you’re in the middle of the kitchen in your shared motel suite, where Dean could wander in at any moment. 

“Sam,” you whisper with difficulty, “should we go back to the room?”

He shakes his head, hair tickling your cheek. “Dean knows better than to come out here.” 

You wonder what exactly that means but decide to leave that for later when Sam takes hold of your shoulders and pushes you back so you’re laying out on the countertop. It’s mercifully cool on your skin and goosebumps crop up all over. 

After Sam pulls down his boxers, you wrap your legs around his waist and wriggle against him. He strokes your folds and slips a finger inside you to the second knuckle, testing your readiness. “You’re already so wet for me,” he said huskily, almost to himself. “I barely had to touch you.”

“Sam,” you whine, and buck against him. He hushes you, smiling, and holds your hips still as he slides into you agonizingly slowly. You both moan, and you clench around him, not wanting to lose the feeling of fullness as he pulls out almost all the way, only to thrust back in. He bends down, almost collapses, really, draping himself over you with his elbows on either side of your head, his gorgeous pink lips hanging open in a silent cry. 

The air is thick and oppressive, Sam’s skin is sticky and you’re hot, too hot, but it feels good, better than you could have imagined, and it’s all you can do to grip Sam’s shoulders and pull him as tightly to you as you can while you roll your hips to match his rhythm. 

It’s too hot for particularly fast or athletic sex, but that’s just as well since this way you can feel every inch of him on each languid stroke, can hear each ragged breath and can even feel the clenching of the muscles of his abdomen against your stomach as he thrusts. Sam brings a hand to cup the side of your face, his long thumb pressing up on the underside of your jaw and angling your head to give him better access to the sensitive skin there, which he licks and sucks leisurely. 

It isn’t long before Sam’s pace is picking up, chasing his release, and he gets a hand down in between you to tease your clit, a couple of strokes strategically timed with a nip right at the sweet spot beneath your ear is all it takes and your thighs are shaking as you come, Sam spilling hot inside you at the same time. 

He holds himself over you for a minute while you both catch your breath, panting into the crook of your neck. You wince as he pulls out with a rather gross squelch and helps you upright, pulling your camisole back up over your breasts as if either of you had some illusion of modesty right now. “Shit, Sam, now we’re even stickier than before,” you complain, quickly adding, “not that I’m having regrets.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and scoffs, grabbing you by the waist to pull you off the counter and set you down gently on the floor. As Sam’s retrieving his boxers—not something you want Dean finding tomorrow morning—you notice the glass of wine miraculously still standing on the counter precariously close to where you and Sam had just been. “Hey look! We didn’t knock the glass over! We should be in some kind of circus act or something.”

“That would be a pretty inappropriate circus act.”

You gulp down what’s left in the glass, feeling thirstier now than you were when you came out in the first place, and grab the bottle from the fridge. Sam raises an eyebrow at you in question. “What?” you shrug, “The stuff’s actually pretty refreshing. I’m bringing it back to the bedroom.” 

Sam narrows his eyes a little and looks you up and down, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Don’t get any ideas.”


End file.
